


the king of hearts (the joker's wild)

by ricciardos



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, POV Third Person Omniscient, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, do note that this fic takes religious ideas and spins them, i promise the immortality comes through later, immortality AU, now for the fun tags: this is lowkey a miracle workers au, so beware if that's not your cup of tea, sprinkles of comedy!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:20:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28290774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricciardos/pseuds/ricciardos
Summary: The world is your oyster,Cupid likes to say.Make your own miracles, help others create theirs.The world is your oyster -- the angels just take the liberty of slicing it up and seasoning it, leaving you to marinate in your own miseries before someone comes along.As for miracles?(Don’t worry, we haven’t forgotten Charles. Or about his drunken bet. This is where it gets interesting.)
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17
Collections: F1 Soup Kitchen Secret Santa 2020





	the king of hearts (the joker's wild)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [secondlifetime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondlifetime/gifts).



> i have way too many things to say here but tldr MERRY CHRISTMAS and i hope this chaptered fic does your concept even the smallest bit of justice (i'll explain more in a discord dm later on, but in my very short writing career: i think writing for my favourite author must have been the most intimidating experience yet)
> 
> special thanks to @untouchableocean for beta-ing!

The thing about heaven is that it’s run like a high school. If this high school were highly capitalist, and taken off public listing. 

_“What are your terms?” Charles shouts across the hall, words slurred and posture unbalanced. The crowd of angels erupts into a chorus of cat-calls and whistles, and the noise is so loud it reverberates through the entire Department. The fog floor is shifting and fading as they hop on adjacent clouds and take sips from their golden, honey-scented ambrosia, craning necks and stretching wings to catch a glimpse of the mexican standoff between master and disciple._

_Mexican standoff, gladiator fight, David and Goliath._

_Same difference._

Department of Maintenance -- arguably, the group of trainees who have not seen enough of immortality to realise that there are some things that fix themselves. Time has an odd way of unravelling threads meant to be undone, repairing cracks meant to be sealed. The trainees run around, papers flying, glasses falling -- there’s always something. Privately, Charles thinks overly enthusiastic trainees get assigned there because they work with a belief that everything can be solved, and can be solved well. 

(Funnily enough, an eternity of working in Heaven jades you.) 

_“Oh, so you want to play like that?” Cupid’s amused voice rumbles, and he seems fairly unbothered by the chaos and attention they have attracted. He looks Charles dead in the eye, swirling the goblet in one hand and grabbing a handful of chips in the other._

_Charles winks at the attendant next to Cupid, and he pours himself another drink._

_Master and Disciple._

Department of Culture: vibrance. Charles knows for a fact that the whole of Heaven looks up to them, purely for the fact that they host Company Bonding Brunch every Sunday. 

(Rumour has it that next week is pho.) 

_“For every lifetime I spend, someone has to fall in love with me. Assign me your worst case file, I don’t care.”_

Of course, there are many other Departments in between. Consider: Department of Disaster Management, Department of Ethics, Department of Research into What God Likes to Eat for Breakfast. 

_Someone from the adoring crowd shouts that Heaven is not a fraternity, and this is not Kappa Boys League. Charles waves his bandana at them in mock irritance._

_(Please, go easy on him for the bandana. It’s dress down day at Heaven Pte Ltd.)_

_“If I fulfil the terms, I get a pay raise. And, I get to use your toilet for eternity. And, you can only address me as Charles the Great Seducer of Mastered Sex Appeal.”_

_Cupid laughs. It’s a hearty laugh, one that beckons boldness but also incredulity at how much Charles is hanging his ass on the line in front of the entire team of employees._

_“Remind me, Charles -- what’s in it for me?”_

_“If I don’t fulfil the terms, you get to revoke my contract of immortality. For every successful attempt thereafter, I have an extension of one lifetime.”_

_All activity shudders to a stop -- like an old train moving along the tracks before halting mid-path, never reaching it's destination of rest. Cupid leans forward in his chair._

Welcome to the Department of Love and Miracles. 

-

If I’m being honest, dear reader, I’m not sure how much I can reveal here. I’m confident I’ve breached the confidentiality clause, but-

One step over the line, ten steps over the line -- is still crossing the line. 

If you could just direct your attention here, let me explain a little bit about how Cupid’s department works. 

-

Cupid’s office rests on the section of sky just above Asia. No one really knows what the doors are made of -- only that they reflect the light rays in the sky to cast upon the continent. On his office tour, Cupid came up with a grandiose explanation about how love lights up the sky and frankly I’ll spare you the painfully cliched lecture. A part of me is inclined to believe that he only does it for shits and giggles -- there’s no way he’s this unjaded. 

A convenient little detail he leaves out, is the view of Hell. 

(It’s not that difficult to imagine the boss sitting on his seat, overlooking the fiery depths of suffering, taking a morning sip of his prosecco. He’ll tell you it’s part of the realities of life, the endless cycle of love and hate -- how the two entities must meet in the middle.)

Make of that what you will.

This next part is going to sound incredibly underwhelming, but bear with me. Maybe you’ll hear something that interests you. 

Behind Cupid’s desk, there is a long hallway of lockers -- spanning miles and miles and miles. Inside each locker, there is a case file of every single person who has roamed Earth’s corridors. 

For you see -- love is a measure of compatibility. That’s what Cupid does. Match up the most compatible people in the world. 

There are records stating how they like their food -- steak, medium rare or well done? There are records stating their ambitions -- lawyer, psychologist, athlete. A section is reserved for what temperatures you like to shower at -- scalding hot, freezing cold. 

A collection of being seen, is what I like to think of it as. 

When two people have been matched, the request is passed down to the sub-department of Miracles. The angels then process the validity and probabilities of success of each scenario, and alter timelines to make it happen. It’s interesting to note that Love and Miracles have merged in recent millennium to become a single Department -- thanks to an AngelsForChange.org petition Cupid started. 

_The world is your oyster,_ Cupid likes to say. _Make your own miracles, help others create theirs._

The world is your oyster -- the angels just take the liberty of slicing it up and seasoning it, leaving you to marinate in your own miseries before someone comes along. 

As for miracles? 

(Don’t worry, we haven’t forgotten Charles. Or about his drunken bet. This is where it gets interesting.)

You see, every once in a while, there are outliers. These are people with compatibilities so low, that it almost becomes physically impossible to match them up with someone else. The prospect of hand-holding for prolonged periods of time -- sweaty palms, overwhelming bacteria migration, uncomfortable bouts of occasional swinging -- disgusts them. I don’t blame them in the slightest, of course. Love is a state of mind -- not a state of physicality. 

This, dear reader, is where the problem lies. 

Inability to fall in love so rarely has anything to do with a profound disgust of hand-holding at the movies, kisses in drive-throughs, roses on Valentine’s Day. The inability to fall in love stems from the sheer _disbelief_ in the concept -- the idea that you, so obsessed with your own vanishing and understanding, can have someone who wants you whole. The inability to fall in love stems from the scorn at which someone looks at love and wonders, how connecting extra emotional dots between people can leave them happy in the face of being vulnerable. Inability to love, dear reader, is not uncommon. Who hasn’t felt a little unloved on Sunday mornings? True inability to love, is the unwillingness to take yourself apart and present it to someone on a platter, with a stethoscope at the side inviting them to explore and listen in tandem to your beating heart and-

Too much? 

I’m sorry. I did a paper on this in a past lifetime.

Where were we? 

Ah yes, the conundrum of Charles Leclerc and where he fits into this little puzzle. 

-

**Author's Note:**

> all kudos and comments appreciated! once again, huge thank you to @legendofthefireemblem for organising this :-) 
> 
> find me on tumblr @albon-and-gang, and may santa grant you lots of presents and happiness along for the new year <3


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